The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] :: :: University of Virginia Library

------ Quid non mortalia pectora cogis.
Auri sacra fames?
VIRGIL. O gold! thou precious fascinating evil,
Say, with what soul hast thou not play'd the devil!

Flectere si nequeo superos, A cheronta movebo.
VIRGIL. Go to the House—beg, threaten, nay, compel for't:
We must have money, though we shake all Hell for't.

252

[_]

READER,

The rumour of an intended and speedy application to Parliament for more money for the king, gave birth to the following Odes. Though by no means an advocate for Mr. Paine's violent system of revolution, I am too much the poet of the people, not to sing for a reformation. To the Odes is subjoined a sort of make-weight poetry. As the pieces are alluded to in the Odes, I deemed it not amiss to publish them—To be sure, they add to the price as well as the bulk of the pamphlet; but, as I still profess myself free from political corruption, notwithstanding a wicked report to the contrary (for great poets as well as great kings may be traduced), I flatter myself that thou wilt be proud of the opportunity of paying a small tribute to public virtue.

P. P.

253

ODE I.

More money wanted?—'tis a brazen lie;
'Tis Opposition's disappointed cry:
A poison'd shaft to wound the best of kings—
More money! 'tis a poor invented story,
To cloud with dire disgrace the king of glory—
Damn'd shears to clip his Fame's exalted wings.

More money!—'tis a little dirty tale,
To sink of popularity the gale
That wafts the name of George to utmost earth;
A snake that should be strangled in its birth.

More money!—'tis a paltry trick so mean,
To make us sick of our good king and queen!
We have no more to give—a truce to grants,
That make the state a field devour'd by wants :
The rust that eats the cannon—the rank weed—
That dares the vessel's course sublime impede;
The worm that gnaws its native keel, th' ingrate,
And opes the world of waters for its fate;
A spreading cancer that demands the knife;
That, wolf-like, preys upon the nation's life.

254

More money!—what a sound!—the solemn bell
That tolls the constitution's knell.
Clap a hot iron on the patriot tongues,
For loading spotless majesty with wrongs:
Nay, tear those tongues, th' offenders, from their holes,
Foul pumps, that pour the froth from poison'd souls,
The monarch scorns to ask a penny more—
Tax'd to the eyes, his groans the state deplore:
Away, then, defamation's baleful breath,
That blows on virtue's bud, the blight of death.

Yet should it happen that the best of kings
Should whisper to his minister strange things,
And bid thee money ask, the tempting curse;
Then firmly thou, the nation's steward, say
(With rev'rence due to royalty, I pray),
‘Dread sir, have mercy on your people's purse.

‘O king, your calculations have misled ye:
Millions on millions you have had already.
Oh! let Discretion from the virtue band
Be call'd to court, to take you by the hand.

‘You really do not know how rich you are:
Your wealth so wondrous makes your subjects stare,
Squeez'd from great cities, towns, and hovels:
Hawksb'ry and Coutts can show such heaps of treasure,
Such loads of guineas for the royal pleasure,
Heav'd into iron chests with shovels!
Then how can majesty be poor?
Your coffers, sir, are running o'er.’

Another word for a mole.

This is fruitless advice, I fear—The passions are too powerful for the gentle virtues. See my beautiful address to those ladies in this work.

255

ODE II.

Say to the king (but with profound respect,
For who would manners unto kings neglect?),
‘Dread sir, to hospitals you little grant,
Your magic name supplying every want—
And then how seldom 'tis you give a treat!
And then your mutton, veal, and beef, you kill,
The stomachs of your favoured few to fill—
And butchers swear 'tis very pretty meat.

‘And lo, you kill your own delightful lambs;
And beat old Bakewell in the breed of rams,
And never wish to keep a thing for finery:
Thus are parterres of Richmond and of Kew
Dug up for bull and cow and ram and ewe,
And Windsor Park, so glorious, made a swinery.

‘And lo, your dairy thriving, let me say,
As not one drop of milk is giv'n away—
So says your little dairy maid so sweet,
Whose beauties many a smile so gracious meet;
And smiling like the blooming May,
Who shows the milk-score ev'ry day.
How then can majesty be poor?
Your chests, sir, must be running o'er.

‘Your oratorios, that expenses bred,
And Duke of Cumberland , so dear, are dead,
That gave ('tis said) your majesty much pain—
The nation kindly paid your doctors' bills,
I mean the Willisses for toil and pills,
That brought you to your wisdom, sire, again—

256

Then how can majesty be poor?
Your coffers must be running o'er.

‘Cabbage and carrot without end,
The Windsor gard'ners daily send;
Proud that their vegetables load the board
Of Britain's high and mighty lord!

‘Of this, their glad posterity shall boast;
For such an honour never should be lost—
Thus shall they cry in triumph to their neighbours,
Crown'd were our great great great forefathers' labours;
Whose praise through Fame's long trumpet ever rings,
For giving cabbages to kings!

‘Presents of ev'ry sort of thing are made,
Without the slightest danger of offending
Either from gentlemen, or men in trade;
Your majesties are both so condescending—
Folks for acceptance never beg and pray:
For presents never yet were turn'd away.

‘People meet much encouragement indeed,
For sending rarities and pretty things;
Although such rarities you do not need—
Such is the sweet humility of kings.
Then how can majesty be poor?
Your coffers must be running o'er.

‘Card-entertainment 'tis you chiefly give,
By which the chandlers scarce can live—
For soon as e'er you leave the little rout,
The candles are immediately blown out!
So quickly seized on by some candle-shark,
Ladies and gentlemen are in the dark .

257

Where what has happen'd, Heav'n alone can tell,
As darkness oft turns pimp t'undo a belle.’

We have more reverence than to say, a brother grazier of the north.

By the death of the duke, a large annual income reverted to his majesty.

Not now.—See the Progress of Admiration.

At the breaking up of a royal card-party, this is constantly done:—the poor maids of honour, and the gentlemen, may grope their way how they can.

ODE III.

Say to thy king (but, as I've said before
With due respect), ‘By G---, you can't be poor.
Sometimes a little concert is made up,
Where nought is giv'n to eat or sup—
Where music makes an economic pother;
Where, with a solitary tweedle tweedle,
A pretty melancholy fiddle
Squeaks at the absence of his little brother,
Whose presence would be much enjoy'd,
But costs too much to be employ'd!
Where Fischer's instrument (a frugal choice)
Serves both for hautboys and for voice—
As Billington and Mara, to the king,
And that perverse Storace would not sing.

‘Lo! by some woman's order (fie upon her!)
The pretty, harmless, modest maids of honour
Are forc'd to furnish for their beds, the sheet;
The pillow-cases too, says Fame,
By order of some high commanding dame,
To whose sweet soul economy is sweet.

‘Dear maids of honour! what a sin of sins,
That Britain can't accomodate your skins!

258

‘Poor Generosity is sadly lam'd;
And yet the noble beast was ne'er rode hard—
Pale, cold Œconomy seems quite asham'd,
Who never plays an idle card:
Nay, Avarice, her mother, with surprise
Turns up the whites, so sad, of both her eyes.

‘To wit you nothing give—to learning nought:
Lo, in his garret, Mathematics pines,
Where, hungry after bread and cheese and thought,
He forms with brother spiders useless lines.

‘Th' expense of new-year's ode is felt no more!
Thus is that needless, tuneless hubbub o'er:
All praise must centre in the birth-day song:
The virtues must be lump'd together—yes!
And then (if subjects may presume to guess)
The laureat need not make it very long.

‘A load of praise is nauseous stuff—
Sire, don't you think, at times, one line enough?
What's christen'd merit, often wants a crutch—
Thus then a single line may be too much.

‘In vain the first of poets tunes his pipe;
His whistle ne'er squeez'd sixpence from your gripe—
Vain all epistles, vain his heav'nly odes:
No, no! poor Peter may his strain prolong;
The dev'l a farthing will reward his song,
The song that should have celebrated gods!

‘In vain for royal patronage he sigh'd:
In vain (some say) the modest bard apply'd
To gain his book your patronizing name—
And if this bard, whom all the Nine inspire,
Instead of generous oil to feed his fire,
Finds cold cold water flung upon his flame:
If he, ah! vainly sighs for dedication,
Woe to the witlings of the nation!

‘What though uncouth his shape, and dark his face;
Whose breeding mother might for charcoal long;

259

Still may the bard abound in verse and grace,
And love for majesty, divinely strong.

‘Then heed not, sire, a clumsy form so fat,
And sombre phiz, Dame Nature's work, unkind:
Great mousing qualities, with many a cat,
Of perfect ugliness, a lodging find.

‘Observe a fat, black, greasy lump of coal;
Lo, to that most ungraceful piece of earth,
A warm and lively lustre owes its birth;
A flame in this world, pleasant to the soul.

‘To shapeless clouds, that, waggon-like, along
Move cumb'rous, scowling on the twilight heav'n,
At times, behold, the purest snows belong!
To such, of rain the lucid drops are giv'n:
Nay, 'mid the mass so murky and forlorn,
Behold the lightning's vivid beam is born!’

Say—‘Mighty monarch, modest merit pines,
‘Hid like the useless gem amid the mines.
Your gaacious smile, which all the world reveres,
Your wealth had open'd her pale closing eye,
Which hope once brighten'd with a spark of joy,
And cruel disappointment quench'd with tears.’

When Monsieur Nicolai, his majesty's first favourite, first fiddle, and first news-monger, went with his majesty's commands to Madam St*****, to assist at a sort of a concert at Buckingham-house, the songstress, smiling on him with the most ineffable contempt, asked him, ‘What, Nicolai, I am to sing at the old price, I suppose?’ meaning nothing, —‘My compliments to your master and mistress, and tell them I am better engaged.’

ODE IV.

Then unto majesty shalt thou repeat
The lines that are to majesty a treat,
Proverbs that œconomic souls revere;
To wit—‘A pin a day's a groat a year’—
‘A little saving is no sin’—
‘Near is my shirt, but nearer is my skin’—
‘A penny sav'd, a penny got’—
‘'Tis money makes the old mare trot’—
Then say, ‘With such wise counsellors, I'm sure
No monarch ever can be poor.’

260

Say too, ‘Great sir, your queen is very rich—
Witness the di'monds lodg'd in ev'ry stitch
Of madam's petticoat , of broad effulgence;
Where flame such jewels on its ample field,
As only to her charms and virtues yield,
So very noble, God's and man's indulgence!’

Now may'st thou raise thy tone a little higher—
Not 'squire, for that's impertinent, but ‘Sire,’
Firm shalt thou say, ‘the realm is not a wizard,
Quick with a word to make the guineas start,
To please a monarch's gold-admiring heart—
In short, Britannia grumbles in her gizzard.

‘Sire, let me say, the realm will smell a rat,
And cry, “Oh! oh! I know what you are at—
Is this your cunning, Master Billy Pitt?
What, Master Billy try to touch his grace?
To keep your most, most honourable place?
Is this your flaming patriotic sit?

“Thick as may be the head of poor John Bull,
The beast hath got some brains within his skull;
A pair of dangerous horns, too, let me add;
Dare but to make the generous creature mad.”

Thus may'st thou decently thy voice exalt—
And add, ‘Soft fires, O monarch, make good malt;
The kiln much forc'd, may blaze about our ears,
And then may fate be busy with his sheers—
For then, with all his fame, your daring 'squire
May, rat-like, squeak unpitied in the fire.’

Proclaim that reputation is a jewel,
And life, without it, merely water-gruel—

261

Say, that a king who seeks a deathless name,
Turns not to newspapers to find a fame;
Where paragraphs (a ministerial job)
Report the half-crown howlings of a mob.

Inform the monarch, when he goes to heav'n,
Verse to his parting spirit may be giv'n;
Ev'n Peter's verse, for which a thousand sigh—
Verse which the poet ev'n to brutes can give,
To bid their lucky names immortal live,
Yet to a king the sacred gift deny!

Say, ‘Sire, we've crippled the poor people's backs;
Dread sir, they are most miserable hacks—
How 'tis they bear it all, is my surprise!
I cannot catch another tax indeed,
With all your fox-hounds noses, and my speed,
Your humble greyhound, though all teeth and eyes.

‘The state, sir, you will candidly allow,
Has been t'ye a most excellent milch cow;
For you, ah! many a bucket has been fill'd—
But trust me, sir, the cow must not be kill'd.

‘So numerous are your wants, and they so keen,
That verily a hundred thousand pounds
Seem just as in a bullocks mouth a bean!
A pound of butter midst a pack of hounds!
Have mercy on us, sir—you can't be poor—
Your coffers really must be running o'er.’

Say, ‘Sire your wisdom is prodigious great!
Then do not put your servant in a sweat—
He hates snap-dragon—'tis a game of danger—

262

The sound, more money, the whole realm appals;
Still, still it vibrates on Saint Stephen's walls;
Our beast, the public, soon must eat the manger.’

Say, ‘Good my liege, indeed there's no more hay—
Kind-hearted king, indeed there's no more corn—
Our hack, Old England, sadly falls away;
Lean as old Rosinante and forlorn.’

Say, ‘Sire, your parliament I dare not meet;
For verily I've some remains of grace—
If forc'd with money-messages to greet,
Your majesty must lend me H---ry's face.

263

‘I know what parliament will say, so mad—
“More money, Master Billy! very fine!
The impudence of highwaymen, my lad,
By G---! is perfect modesty to thine.”
‘Sire, sire, the moment that I mention money,
I'm sure the answer will be “Ninny nonny.”’

This famous petticoat affordeth a pleasant history —one part of which is, that it was watched all night by a certain great man, on a particular occasion, to prevent its being stolen.

This is literally true. I, the lyric Peter, assert, that I have written a most beautiful elegy to an old friend, a dying ass, with more feeling than I could compliment the deaths of half the kings in Christendom.

The cry of ‘More money, more money,’ brings to recollection a little dialogue, amongst the many, that happened between the king of the Mosquitoes and myself, in the Government-house at Jamaica, during the administration of the late Sir William Trelawny. —His majesty was a very stout black man, exceedingly ignorant, nevertheless possessed of the sublimest ideas of royalty; very riotous, and grievously inclined to get drunk. He came to me one day, with a voice more like that of a bullock than a king, roaring, ‘Mo drink for king, mo drink for king!’

P. P.

King you are drunk already.

KING.

No! no! king no drunk—King no drunk—Mo drink for king—Broder George love drink (meaning the king of England.)

P. P.

Broder George does not love drink: he is a sober man.

KING.

But king of Musquito love drink—me will have mo drink—me love drink like devil—me drink whole ocean.

ODE V.

Now, Pitt, put forth a small prophetic sound;
Say, ‘Kings should keep their state, but not be rich’—
Yes, say, ‘they never should with wealth abound,
As money might the royal mind bewitch.’
Say, ‘Gambling monarchs possibly may spring,
And stocks be at the mercy of a king—
And if for boroughs sigh their great affections,
Rare business for the devil at elections!
A monarch offering his own heads and notes—
A king and cobbler quarrelling for votes!’

Then lift thine head, and also lift thine eyes,
And drawing of thy mouth the corners down,
Exclaim (as stricken with a deep surprise),
‘Not that I think a man who wears a crown
Would act so meanly, sir, or ever did—
No! God forbid, dread sovereign—God forbid!’

Such are my counsels, Pitt.—Thy king, perchance,
May, smiling, hear thee oracles advance;
And pitying thee for hinting reformation
To such a king of such a nation,

May stun thee with two proverbs all so pat—
‘What, what, Pitt—“Play a jig to an old cat?”

264

What, preach—what, preach to me on money-wit!
“Old foxes want no tutors,” Billy Pitt.’

Reformation is a most difficult and dangerous subject.—Hazarding a critique on the work of a very eminent artist, some years ago, what was the consequence?—See the ode.

265

THE ROYAL BULLOCKS,

A Consolatory and Pastoral Elegy.
[_]

The following Elegy was written on the royal Scheme of fattening Cattle solely on Horse-Chesnuts, which (had it succeeded) must have been attended with prodigious savings. The Bullocks tried what they could do, but were forced to give up the point, and nearly the ghost!

Ye horn'd inhabitants of Windsor Park,
Where reign'd sweet hospitality of yore,
Why are you not as merry as the lark?
Why is it that so dismally you roar?

Ah me! I guess the cause!—our glorious king
Would fatten cattle in the cheapest way—
It is, it is, horse-chesnuts!—that's the thing
Which give each face the cloud of dire dismay.

Say, do the prickles stab each gentle beard?—
You wish t'oblige the king; but, ah! with pain
You turn them round and round, to bite afeard,
And faintly mumbling, drop them out again.

Fain would I comfort ye with better meat—
God knows I pity ev'ry plaintive tone—
Gladly your gums with turnips would I greet,
And give the fragrant hay to sooth each groan.

266

Say, are the nuts too solid to be chew'd?—
Of want of nut-crackers do ye complain?
Ye make up awkward mouths upon your food;
But plaint of ev'ry sort is pour'd in vain.

Condemn'd on such hard fare to sup and dine,
And often by its stubborn nature foil'd,
Perhaps you wish it roasted, gentle kine,
Or probably you wish it stew'd or boil'd.

But coals cost money—labour must be sav'd—
Know this would prove a great expense indeed:
Ah! kine, by such œconomy close-shav'd,
Your bellies grumble, and your mouths must bleed.

Your leanness mortifies the king of nations:
Displeas'd he wonders that you won't grow fat:
Your high back-bones employ his speculations,
Much your poor bellies exercise his chat.

The man whose lofty head adorns a crown,
That stoutly studies bullocks, pigs, and books,
Wants much to see you knock'd by butchers down,
And hung in fair array upon their hooks.

Yet murm'ring creatures, life is vastly sweet—
For life, were I a bullock, I should sigh:
Much rather make a sacrifice to meat;
Live on horse-chesnuts, than on turnips die.

A MORAL REFLECTION On the preceding Elegy.

HOW can the eye, in Nature's softness drest,
So harden'd, see the different tribes around;
Behold the grazing cattle all so blest,
And lambkins mingling sport with sweetest sound;

267

Then glist'ning, in a strain of triumph cry,
‘Your throats young gentlefolks, will soon be cut—
You, sweet Miss Lamb, most speedily shall die—
Soon on the spit, you, Master Calf, be put.’

How can the tongue, amid the mingled noise
Of goose, duck, turkey, pigeon, cock and hen,
Exclaim, ‘Aye, aye, good fowls, your cackling joys
Soon cease, to fill with mirth the mouths of men?

I cannot meet the lambkin's asking eye,
Pat her soft neck, and fill her mouth with food,
Then say, ‘Ere evening cometh, thou shalt die,
And drench the knives of butchers with thy blood.’

I cannot fling with lib'ral hand the grain,
And tell the feather'd race so blest around,
‘For me, ere night, you feel of death the pain;
With broken necks you flutter on the ground.’

How vile!—‘Go, creatures of th' Almighty's hand;
Enjoy the fruits that bounteous Nature yields;
Graze at your ease along the sunny land;
Skim the free air, and search the fruitful fields—

‘Go, and be happy in your mutual loves;
No violence shall shake your shelter'd home;
'Tis life and liberty shall glad my groves;
The cry of murder shall not damn my dome;’

Thus should I say, were mine a house and land—
And lo, to me a parent should you fly,
And run, and lick, and peck with love my hand,
And crowd around me with a fearless eye.

And you, O wild inhabitants of air,
To bless, and to be blest, at Peter's call,
Invited by his kindness, should repair;
Chirp on his roof, and hop amidst his hall.

No school-boy's hand should dare your nests invade,
And bear to close captivity your young—

268

Pleas'd would I see them flutt'ring from the shade,
And to my window call the sons of song.

And you, O natives of the flood should play
Unhurt amid your crystal realms, and sleep:
No hook should tear you from your loves away;
No net surrounding form its fatal sweep.

Pleas'd should I gaze upon your gliding throng,
To sport invited by the summer beam;
Now moving in most solemn march along,
Now darting, leaping from the dimpled stream.

How far more grateful to the soul the joy,
Thus cheerful, like a set of friends, to treat ye,
Than like the bloated epicure, to cry,
‘Zounds! what rare dinners!—God! how I could eat ye!’

269

ELEGY ON MY DYING ASS, PETER.

Friend of my youthful days, for ever past,
When whim and harmless folly rul'd the hour;
Ah! art thou stretch'd amid the straw at last!—
These eyes with tears thy dying looks devour.

Blest, would I soften thy hard bed of death,
And with new floods the fount of life supply.
O Peter, blest would I prolong thy breath,
Renew each nerve, and cheer thy beamless eye.

But wherefore wish?—Thy lot is that of all—
Thy friend who mourns must yield to Nature's law—
Like thee must sink—and o'er each dark'ning ball,
Will Death's cold hand th' eternal curtain draw.

Piteous thou liftest up thy feeble head,
And mark'st me dimly, with a dumb adieu—
And thus amid thy hopeless looks I read,
‘Faint is thy servant, and his moments few—

‘With thee no longer blest, the lanes I tread—
Those times, so happy, are for ever o'er—
Ah! why should Fate so cruel out our thread,
And part a friendship that must meet no more?

Oh! when these lids shall close (the will of Fate)
Oh! let in peace these aged limbs be laid—
Mid that lov'd field which saw us oft of late,
Beneath our fav'rite willow's ample shade.

270

‘And if my master chance to wander nigh,
Beside the spot where Peter's bones repose;
Oh! let your servant claim one little sigh—
Grant this—and, blest, these eyes for ever close.’

Yes thou poor spirit, yes—thy wish is mine—
Yes, be thy grave beneath the willow's gloom—
There shall the sod, the greenest sod, be thine:
And there the brightest flow'r of spring shall bloom.

Oft to the field as health my footstep draws,
Thy turf shall surely catch thy master's eye;
There on thy sleep of death shall friendship pause,
Dwell on past days, and leave thee with a sigh.

Sweet is remembrance of our youthful hours,
When innocence upon our actions smil'd!—
What though ambition scorn'd our humble pow'rs,
Thou a wild cub, and I a cub as wild?

Pleas'd will I tell how oft we us'd to roam;
How oft we wander'd at the peep of morn;
Till night would wrap the world in spectred gloom,
And Silence listen'd to the beetle's horn.

Thy victories will I recount with joy;
The various trophies by the fleetness won;
And boast that I, thy playfellow, a boy,
Beheld the feats by namesake Peter done.

Yes, yes (for grief must yield at times to glee),
Amidst my friends I oft will tell our tale;
When lo, these friends will rush thy sod to see,
And call thy peaceful region Peter's vale.

271

AN ACADEMIC ODE.

[_]

[This Ode was written some years since, and was mislaid; but is fortunately recovered.—It hinteth at the universal Rage for Reputation, and attacketh Painters, who pitifully wince at the gently-reforming Touch of Criticism.]

Alas! who has not fondness for a name?
Lo, Nature wove it in our infant frame!
From ear-delighters, down to ear-confounders,
Each vainly fancies he possesses killing tones;
Ev'n from the Maras and the Billingtons,
Down to the wide-mouth rascals crying flounders—
Nay, proud too of that instrument the rattle,
That draws the hobbling brotherhood to battle,
Nay, watchmen deem their merits no way small,
Proud of a loud, clear, melancholy bawl.

Yes, yes! much vanity's in human nature—
Like mad dogs, that abhor the water,
The painters hate to hear their faults display'd—
And though I sing them in the best of rhimes,
Such are the reformation-cursing times,
The foolish fellows really wish me dead.

Now this is great depravity, I fear—
My tale, too, proveth it, as noon-day clear.

272

THE TALE OF VAN TRUMP.

Mynheer Van Trump, who painteth very well,
Flam'd at my gentle criticisms, like hell—
‘Poor vretch,’ cried Trump, ‘I'm much dat rogue's superiors—
Ven he, poor lousy dog, be ded an rot,
Van Trump by peeples vil not be forgot,
But lif in all de mouths of my posteriors’—
Meaning indeed by this severity,
His name would live to all posterity.

Upon a day, some goodly folks and fine,
Arriv'd, to barter praise for beef and wine;
Academicians were the wights, I trow,
The very men to dine with Van and Vrow.

To Madam Trump did fall the carving work—
So sticking in a fowl's sweet breast her fork—
‘I wish this fork,’ quoth angry Madam Trump,
Wriggling from side to side her angry rump,
‘Were now as deep in Peter Pindar's heart.’
‘Vell zed—dat's clever—Jantelmans, dat's vit,’
Quoth Van—‘spake it vonce more, my dear, a bit—
‘Now don't you tink, sirs, dat my vrow's dam smart?

Now, jantelmans, I ax you if you please,’
Roar'd Van, upstarting—catching fire like tinder—
‘Will drenk von dam goot bumper 'pon our knees—
Come, sirs, “Damnation to dat Peter Pindar.”’
Plump down the great academicians fell,
And hearty drank th' immortal bard to hell!

Such, I'm asham'd to say, 's the dev'lish mind,
Contaminating poor mankind.

Here too a little moral may be seen—
Reformers are good folks, the million hate;
And who, if hang'd, or shot, or burnt, I ween,
Repentant, find their folly out, too late.

273

THE PROGRESS OF ADMIRATION;

OR THE WINDSOR GARDENERS.

When first their majesties to Windsor went,
Lo, almost ev'ry mouth was rent—
With what?—with gaping on the royal pair:
Indeed from east and west and north and south,
Arriv'd large cargoes both of eye and mouth,
To feast on majesty their gape and stare.

Not Punch, the mighty Punch, the prince of joke,
E'er brought together such a herd of folk:

Amongst the thousands full of admiration,
Appear'd fair Windsor's gardening nation,
Blazing with Loyalty's bright torches—
They humbly came their majesties to greet,
Begging their majesties to come and treat,
On ev'ry sort of fruit, their grand allforches.
The couple smil'd assent, and ask'd no questions—
Resolv'd to gratify their great digestions.

Forth went his majesty, so condescending—
Forth went our gracious queen, the fruits commending—
Munching away at a majestic rate.
The gardeners saw themselves bespread with glory;
Told unto all the ale-houses the story;
Which houses did again the tale relate.
Yes, they were all so pleas'd that their poor things
Should find such favour in the mouths of kings—
So happy at the sudden turn of fate,
As though they all had found a great estate.

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With awe so stricken were the gardeners mute—
So sharp they ey'd them as they ate their fruit—
Marv'ling to find that such as wear a crown
Had actions very much like theirs in eating;
And that they mov'd, when pines and nect'rines greeting,
Their jaws like other people up and down;
And that, like other folks, they ate a deal—
Making (that is to say) a ploughman's meal.

And now the gardeners, all so glorious, wanted
To send to majesty rare things—'twas granted.
Both horse and foot so labour'd to embark it!
So much indeed unto their graces came,
In consequence of this most loyal flame,
The palace look'd like Covent-garden market.

And lo, their majesties went forth each day
Their compliments to dainty fruits to pay:
The gardeners met them with best looks and bows;
And then the royal reputation rais'd—
The vegetable wisdom highly prais'd—
Of George the glorious, and his glorious spouse.

They told of Windsor town the gaping throng,
What taste did unto majesty belong;
As how they pick'd the best—strange to relate too—
As how their eyes were of such lofty stature;
Fill'd with so much sublimity their nature,
They look'd not on an onion or potatoe—
Which show'd a noble patronizing spirit,
And prov'd that even in fruit they favour'd merit.

Reader, prepare to drop thy jaw with wonder;
Prepare thee now to hear a sound like thunder;
The gardeners, lo, with majesty grew tired!
No more, their gracious visitors desir'd!
In short, when monarchs did themselves display,
The gardeners, bonâ fide, ran away;
Finding a sort of vacuum 'mongst their fruit,
That did not much their scheme of thriving suit.

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For majesty gives nought to subjects, mind—
Honour and money would be much too kind:
The royal smile, and guineas' glorious rays,
Like Semele , would kill them with the blaze.

They now began exalted birth to smoke,
And fancy monarchs much like common folk—
Therefore no more, when majesties were coming,
Whistling and laughing, smiling, singing, humming,
They gap'd, and blessing their two happy eyes,
Leap'd at their presence, just like fish at flies.

Thus did those fellows run from queen and king;
Which shows the changeful folly of mankind—
By growing tir'd and sick of a good thing,
To actual happinesses blind!

For what in this our earthly world can spring,
That's equal to a glorious king?
What in this world of wonders can be seen,
That's equal to a charming queen?

To fancy otherwise, alas! what sin it is!
From such profane opinion how I shrink!—
There must be something great, for they too think
They're gods, or cousins of divinities!

No more the dogs the gard'ners ponder'd how
To say fine words, and make a pretty bow:
No more they felt a choaking in the throat:
No more look'd up and down, and wink'd askew,
Poor souls, and, silly, wist not what to do,
When with such awe the royal visage smote.

No, no! the scene was most completely alter'd,
No longer like some stupid jack-ass halter'd,

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Beside a miller's door, or gate, or post,
In seeming meditation lost,
To majesty were drawn their heads so thick—
No—they were off—all admiration-sick.

Such is sad repetition, O ye gods!
And this may really happen to my odes!

Men of huge titles and exalted places,
Should at a distance commonly be seen—
Eyes should not be familiar with their faces;
Then Wonder goes a courting to each mien.

Lo, novelty's a barber's strap or hone,
That keenness to the razor-passions gives:
Use weareth out this barber's strap or stone;
Thus 'tis by novelty, enjoyment lives.

In love, a sweet example let us seek—
I have it—Cynthia's soft luxuriant neck—
Fix'd on the charm, how pleas'd the eye can dwell!
How sighs the hand within the gauze to creep,
Mouse-like, and on the snowy hills to sleep,
Rais'd by the most delicious swell;
Like gulls, those birds that rise, and now subside
Borne on the bosom of the silver tide.
But let the breast be common—all's undone;
Wishes, and sighs, and longings, all are gone:
Away the hurrying palpitations fly;
Desire lies dead upon the gazeless eye.
Sunk into insipidity is rapture!
Thus finisheth of love the simple chapter.

This is a pretty lesson, though not new;
A lesson fit for Gentile or for Jew—
For love, the cooing, sweet, persuasive pigeon,
Gains all the globe indeed to his religion:
Throughout the world his humble vot'ries pray,
And worship him exactly the same way.—
Other religions kill—are torn by strife—
Love kisses, and, what's sweeter still, gives life!

The story of Semele, not being known to every one, is this:—the young lady, ambitious of enjoying Jupiter in all his glory, perished amidst the sublime effulgence of the god.

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ADDRESS TO THE VIRTUES,

AN ODE.

Ah, Virtues! you are pretty-looking creatures;
But then so meek and feeble in your natures!—
Thou charming Chastity now, par exemple,
Who guard'st the luscious lip, and snowy breast.
And all that maketh wishing shepherds blest,
Forbidding thieves on sacred ground to trample.

Appear but Love, the savage, all is lost;
Faint, trembling, blushing, thou giv'st up the ghost:
Lo, there's an end of all thy mincing care!
The field so guarded, in the tyrant's pow'r;
Each fence torn down, despoil'd each mossy bow'r,
All, all is rudely plunder'd, and laid bare.

Virtues! you blunder'd on our world, I fear—
Design'd for some more gentle sphere;
Where the wild passions storm ye not, nor tease ye;
Where ev'ry animal's a mild Marchesi.

I know your parentage and education—
Born in the skies—a lofty habitation—
But for a perfect system were intended,
Where people never needed to be mended.

How could you think the passions to withstand,
Those roaring blades, so out of all command,
Whose slightest touch would pull you all to pieces?
They are Goliahs—you but little Misses!
Then pray go home again each pretty dear—
You but disgrace yourselves by coming here.

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THE PROGRESS OF KNOWLEDGE.

A mighty potentate, of some discerning,
Inquisitive indeed! and fond of learning,
From Windsor oft danc'd down to Eton College,
To make himself a pincushion of knowledge;
That is, by gleaning pretty little scraps
Of Cæsar, Alexander, and such chaps.

There would he oft harangue the master,
On Homer, Virgil, Pindar, my relation,
Fast as a jack-fly, very often faster—
Now jack-flies have a sweet acceleration.
Oft ask'd he questions about ancient kings—
Nat'ral! because so like himself—great things!
He ask'd if Cæsar ever did insist,
That if his minister would keep his place,
That minister should always have the grace
To mind deficiencies of civil list;

Whether great Cæsar ever sent his sons,
To study all the classics and great guns,
And bring of art and science home a store,
To Gottingen (his money wisely hoarding),
As Gottingen is vastly cheap for boarding
Young gentlemen whose parents are but poor—

He ask'd if Cæsar's soul was fond of knowing
What all the neighbourhood was daily doing;

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What went into the pot, or on the spit—
How much in house-keeping they yearly spent,
And if, like honest folks they paid their rent,
Or gave of victuals to the poor, a bit—

If Cæsar ever to a brewhouse went,
With lords and ladies of his court so grand,
And hours on hops and hoops and hogsheads spent,
So wise, with some great Whitbread of the land;
And tarried till he did the brewer tire,
And made the brewer's horse and dog admire;
And curious draymen into hogsheads creeping,
Sly rogues, and through the bung-holes peeping—

Whether great Cæsar was so sly an elf,
As from the very servants to inquire;
And know much better than the 'squire himself,
The business of each neighb'ring 'squire—

As why the coachman Jerry went away;
Which of the drivers Joan the cook defil'd;
Which of the footmen with Susanna lay,
And got the charming chamber-maid with child—

He ask'd if Cæsar's servants all
Were, cat-like, all good mousers, earn'd their wages;
Sought news from street and tavern, bulk and stall,
Like Nicolai, the prince of pages;
And whether Cæsar, with ferocious looks,
Found a poor trav'ling louse, and shav'd his cooks—

If Cæsar's minister gave half-a-crown,
To shoe-blacks, and the sweepers of the town,
To howl, and swear, and clap him at the play;
And when unto the senate-house he rode,
To spread their ell-wide lantern jaws abroad,
And roar most bull-like when he came away.

He ask'd if Julius Cæsar's wife
Had ever maids of honour in her life,
Like any modern œconomic queen;

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And if, of saving wisdom full,
The saving empress ever made a rule,
So keen, indeed so very keen:—

That all those honourable maids,
Who wish'd to sleep in comfortable beds,
Should purchase their own sheets and pillow-cases,
To treat their gentle backs, and blooming faces—

Whether great Cæsar lov'd humility,
That is in subjects only, viz. nobility;
And eke the commons, deem'd a vulgar mass,
Form'd by the wisdom of Almighty God,
To carry on their backs a heav'nly load,
Just like a camel, elephant, or ass—

If Cæsar cut up palaces for pens,
And unto butch'ring strongly did incline;
Sold geese and turkeys, ducks, and cocks and hens,
And fatten'd cows, and calves, and sheep, and swine;
In rams surpass'd him (of ram glory full),
Or ever beat him in a bull.

He ask'd if Cæsar did not find
Some cunning fellow for a hind,
Prepar'd with strange accounts to meet him,
And in his pigs and sheep and bullocks cheat him;
And whether Cæsar did not slily watch him—
And what were Cæsar's traps to catch him—

If, like Peg Nicholson, on mischief busy,
A mantua-maker drew a rusty knife,
To cleave the emperor in twain, the hussey,
Fright'ning the emperor out of his life—

He ask'd if Italy was half so blest
As England, in that prince of painters, West;
And if there ever liv'd in Rome's great town,
A man who stole, like Reynolds, a renown;
A man indeed, whose daubing brush
Puts Painting, the sweet damsel, to the blush—

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Then ask'd if Cæsar ever had the heart
To give a shilling to the glorious art.

He ask'd if Cæsar, 'midst his dread campaigns,
Felt bold, whene'er well dous'd by rushing rains;
Not caring ev'n a single fig,
Although they spoil'd a bran-new wig;
Joining the doughty regiments of death,
On some wild Wimbledon, or huge Blackheath.

He ask'd if Cæsar ever star'd abroad
(Instead of staring, as he ought, at home)
For architects with trash the land to load,
And raise of gaudy gingerbread a dome :
Such as is rais'd by that rare Swede Sir Will,
The grinning mouth of Ridicule to fill—

Whether the curious Cæsar sent to Greece,
For statues costing Heav'n knows what a-piece;
Then putting under ground a world's rare boast ,
To entertain a toad or ghost.

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Such were the questions, with a thousand more,
He ask'd, to swell of knowledges the store;
That fell like starlings on the ear, in flocks—
Sure keys for opening Mother Wisdom's locks:

Rare keys that ope the twilight vaults of time;
A thief who, with a sacrilegious pride,
Delighteth something ev'ry day to hide,
Sacks full of prose and sweetly-sounding rhime.

Such questions, with a manner quite unique,
The monkey boys to mimic soon began—
And lo, of mimicry the saucy trick,
Like wildfire through the college ran.
Lord! hinder them!—there could be no such thing—
Thus ev'ry little rascal was a king!

This, Fame, who seldom lessens sounds, did bear,
With all its horrors, to the royal ear—
The consequence, the school had cause to rue—
To schools the monarch bade a long adieu;
Of Eton journeys gave th' idea o'er,
And, angry, never mention'd Cæsar more!

The Royal Academy.

A cast, and the only one, of the famous Farnese Hercules, having been procured by a considerable expense, as well as trouble, for the benefit of the students of the Royal Academy, and the admiration of the world in general, is now thrust away into a dark hole; the building being rather calculated for the support of butterflies, than heavy antiques. The following short dialogue was written on the occasion:—

A Dialogue between two Statues, in an upper Room of the Royal Academy.

First Statue.

‘What keeps old Hercules below,
A fellow of such rare renown?

Second Statue.

‘Plague take thee! hold thy tongue—for know,
Should he come up, we all go down.’